


Lamentations

by theDeadTree



Series: GreedFall Oneshots & Scene Collections [2]
Category: GreedFall (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 20:02:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20879888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theDeadTree/pseuds/theDeadTree
Summary: He didn’t like to say that he hated himself. But lately, it had become a truth too impossible to ignore.





	Lamentations

**Author's Note:**

> More of this, because I'm utter angst-loving garbage and I had feelings about that reveal.

It seemed to hit him in stages; like the tide of his own mind, endlessly coming in and going out, always making it a little further with each attempt.

Sometimes, he found that he forgot the terrible reality hanging over him like a shroud – all the anxieties would melt away and suddenly he could get by, slip effortlessly back into being the person he was supposed to be, the person everyone expected of him, the person he’d come to expect of _himself._ Sometimes, it was easy. Like nothing had really changed. But then, every once in a while, it would all come rushing back and he’d suddenly find himself stuck, unable to move forwards, drowning in fear of the unknown. Of what his life could have been. Of what it probably _should_ have been.

One day, he wouldn’t be able to forget.

That was the thought that scared him most – the idea that eventually, he wouldn’t even be able to hide behind his usual charade of steely stoicism.

_Stoicism._

The word reverberated around his mind in that moment, his thoughts growing increasingly snide and sarcastic as the moment dragged on. What a word that was. What a polite way of saying that he’d spent his entire life in fear of his own emotions. What a nice way of pointing out that he’d long since buried who he really was deep down, shoving all his truths aside in an effort to embody the most palatable version of himself.

He didn’t like to say that he hated himself. But lately, it had become a truth too impossible to ignore.

Was it really so surprising that he was happier when he forgot? Was it really so difficult to understand why he fought so hard to cling to his old life, his old understanding, his old reality? Was he not allowed to mourn the loss?

He’d said he wanted to be alone. He wasn’t sure if that was true, but he’d said it all the same. If he was being honest with himself, he had to accept that there was a part of him – far too much of him, really – that _longed_ for company, for someone to talk to him, to listen to him scream and cry and lash out at the world. Instead, he’d told them to go. Ordered them to leave him in peace in some final effort to salvage his reputation and save his own wounded pride.

Still, despite all their attempts to do as he wished and keep their distance, he knew that they were always keeping a careful eye on him, as if they worried he would do something impulsive and stupid the instant any of them turned away. And in truth, he couldn’t bring himself to fault any of them for that. Not even now, when he felt his stomach churn uncomfortably the instant his eyes fell upon the familiar emerald green of his front door.

He stopped directly in front of it, glaring at it, as if it had betrayed him, as well. Like the simple fact that it had been painted that colour was a way to subtly mock him, some snide reminder of everything that he was, and by extension, everything he suddenly knew he _wasn’t._

Maybe that was paranoid, on his part. His mother had always liked the colour, after all. She said it suited him, and that was reason enough for it to become something of a motif in his life. It needn’t be anything more than that. Just because it now reminded him of the natives didn’t make it a deliberate slight. But he _knew_ his uncle. Knew what a vindictive, manipulative old _bastard_ the man was. For almost as long as he could remember, he’d watched on helplessly as Constantin suffered under the prince’s withering gaze. It wasn’t such an impossible thing.

He let out a quiet groan and leaned forwards slowly, closing his eyes as his forehead gently collided with the wood of the door.

Constantin.

What was he going to say?

What _could_ he say? How on _earth _was he supposed to explain_ that?_

He wouldn’t take it well. Of course he wouldn’t – it was _Constantin._ He’d always reacted to bad news by either running away from it or ignoring it outright; it had been that way since they were children. He’d more than likely go into denial. Maybe they both would. Just pretend nothing ever happened, that nothing had changed. Just go on with their lives acting as though it didn’t matter; that none of it _ever_ mattered.

But it did. Or at least, it mattered to _him._ And as much as he wished otherwise, _everything_ had changed.

He’d have to face Constantin eventually. Sooner rather than later. He knew that. Just… not today. It was too soon.

_Selfish,_ came the accusatory thought. _He deserves to know._

He’d been running after Constantin for what felt like their entire lives. His cousin could give him one single day to process.

He winced at the thought. He sounded so resentful.

Maybe he was. He didn’t know anymore.

It came then – a strangled, choked sob that fought its way through his resolve, leaving him coughing and gasping as tears began to stream, unwanted, down his face. A terrible weight pressed in on his chest and he struggled to breathe, collapsing against the door and sliding helplessly to the ground, wailing like a child as his entire life came crashing down around him and the last few scattered threads of his composure finally broke.

Nothing seemed real anymore. Everything he’d ever been told was a lie, and all he could do in response was curl up on the hard, unforgiving ground and weep.

He couldn’t cope. So he didn’t.

He didn’t know how long he stayed there, making an absolute scene of himself. For what was probably the first time in his life, however, he found that he didn’t care. It didn’t matter. Nothing did.

Everyone was looking at him; he could feel their puzzled stares on his back. He knew what was happening, even without looking up. The sound of slowed footsteps, of hushed, awkward whispers, of quickened breathing. It gave them all away – their curiosity, their distaste, their confusion, their fear. That hadn’t changed. It would never change.

Everyone stared. But then, everyone always had.

He’d never fit into _their_ world, not truly. The mark sprawled across his cheek had seen to that long ago. But he didn’t seem to belong on the island, either.

What even _was_ he now?

Native by blood. Naut by birth. Noble by upbringing. But what sense did _that_ make?

All he could do was think about the wildly different lives he could’ve lived and wonder what it would’ve been like, wonder about the kind of person he would be now; if he’d even be able to recognise himself.

Unthinkingly, he brought a hand up and began rubbing his jaw furiously, hoping in spite of himself that he could simply wash all his differences, all the things that stood out about him, all the things that marked him as something _else,_ away.

He didn’t know what else to do.

In that moment, there was nothing else he _could_ do.

He buried his face in his hands and he cried, mourning the loss of the life he once lived, and the ones he could’ve had.


End file.
